Uncanny
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: Threesome follow-up to 'Unconscionable' and 'Uncivilized.' Because one cranky, besotted Scotsman isn't nearly enough.


The metal doors slide open, and it's clear Belle is in a foul mood.

"Long day?" Rush sets aside his blunt pencil stub and notepad. If she needs to unload, he can carry on with these calculations surreptitiously, within the privacy of his own skull. It's faster going on paper, but Belle prefers eye contact while they converse.

Not that he objects to being fixed with her steady, sea-blue stare. Not at all. Not even when it's flashing furious sparks in his direction.

"Bleeding _awful_ day," she agrees, yanking at the zip on her trousers.

Well then.

Belle chucks her old shoes, one after the other, at his bedroom wall—_thwunk! thwunk!—_and tugs her gray cotton tee up over her head.

Her stomach is pale as parchment and just a wee bit convex.

While her shirt's up over her elbows, Rush drinks in the winsome sight of her. Exhaling slowly through his nose, he thinks: _"Just t__wo steps closer to the bed, beautiful, and I'll slip my tongue into your navel and my fingers beneath that cotton covering your pert, perfect little arse. Come just a bit closer, love, and I'll wipe that frown from your face."_

Once Belle's shirt comes off, complex calculations are a lost cause.

She stalks nearer, wearing only her threadbare underthings.

Rush decides it's safest to stay stock-still and keep his yap shut. It seems the only intelligent option, really.

Belle crawls up onto the bed and straddles his outstretched legs, jabbing one accusatory finger into his sternum—_hard._

"You're a real piece of work, you know that, Rush? You're a regular bleeding piece of work." She shakes her head.

Now, there's no question that he can be every inch the bastard, but Rush knows he's been on fine behavior _today._ No ill-advised fires needed putting out. No gross incompetence needed correcting. He kept his famous temper in check.

Really, there's no call for a dressing down nor for the sharp little finger dug into his chest.

"You can't take 'no' for an answer, can you?" Belle continues, her brows drawn together and her fetching snub nose nearly touching his. "It's _Colonel Young and I_ that decide who uses the communication stones and in what order. Not you, Rush! _Not. You._" She punctuates these fierce words with more painful pokes to his chest.

His eyes dart downwards to the rounded tops of Belle's breasts. They rise and fall in breathless exasperation, constricted by thin, white cotton. He knows from experience that they fit his palms perfectly.

He knows that Belle's small breasts are soft as a bird's wing.

He licks his dry lips and begins: "I didn't use the stones—"

"Not _you._ Him! _Nicholas!_ Do you know what you said to me, Rush?"

Belle's warm, cotton-clad arse is pressed against the crotch of his jeans, and she's gripping his outer thighs with her strong, lean legs. Her hair is pulled up into a high, haphazard ponytail, just the very sort he favors. "Not me, Belle—_Nicholas_…" he reminds her, but she's gone off on a tear, and there's nothing for it until she talks herself out.

It's damned lucky for him that Belle fucks him angry just as often as she fucks him sunny. To his everlasting amazement, their spats never seem to put a damper on her ardor—quite contrary to what little he knows about the fairer sex.

"You told me: 'If I _trusted_ your judgement, French, then I would _defer_to your judgement. But I_ don't, _so I_ won't.'" _Belle imitates his clipped, dismissive Scottish burr.

_"_And afterwards you nipped in in front of Eli, who hasn't seen his mother _who has cancer_ for bloody ages…"

"Belle, I'm sure he—_he, _not_ I_—had some reason…some crucial business…" Rush begins, knowing straightaway that he should never have began it.

Within Belle's dark, flashing eyes, the storm gathers intensity.

"Yes—_yes,_ you certainly always have your bloody _reasons…"_ she says, sounding both despairing and dangerous, looking like Hell's own fury, but her glinting eyes rake over him in a way that coaxes his pliable cock out of hiding.

Against his better judgement, Rush's hands move from the satiny duvet to her spread, pale thighs, and he squeezes them tentatively. She's hot to the touch.

_Fevered,_ almost.

"Belle…"

"Quiet," she admonishes, "Be _quiet_ you insufferable, egotistical—" and then she hastily ducks her head and captures his fleshy lower lip between her teeth, biting harder than she's ever done before.

_"Rude,_ Rush," she whispers, releasing him. "You were very _rude."_

Their lovemaking has always been a bit…

_Feral._

Ever since they escaped that awful swamp planet, they've given way to all manner of Belle's whims. And a handful of his own, in actual fact. Perhaps it was the near brush with death. Perhaps the welcome relief from loneliness and extended celibacy.

Regardless, Rush knows _exactly_ how it will be tonight.

When Belle grips his shoulders—_like so_—and roughly nips and licks his lips, it means she wants his mouth between her legs. _Posthaste._

Thankful for an opportunity to make himself agreeable, he kneads her spread thighs with the pads of his fingers, grazing the edges of her chaste, cotton knickers. Her demure underthings are at odds with the wanton creature Belle becomes between the sheets. And yet, whenever his tongue meets her yielding flesh—it's like fucking _alchemy._

Belle kisses him fiercely, the slippery tip of her tongue running along his soft palate, and then she fills his mouth with a sweet groan when his roving hands impatiently pluck at her cotton.

Obligingly—_expectantly_—she rises up on her knees, allowing him to work her underthings down over her rounded hips, exposing a glorious, thick triangle of dark, glossy curls.

_"Fuck, Belle—"_ he whispers, watching her hastily shuck her knickers.

His long fingers are curled and twitching, waiting in his lap.

Rush absently moves his knuckles over his erection, which strains painfully upwards beneath his soft denim trousers. He's _beyond_ ready for this, even though they fucked only just this morning.

Belle's movements are erratic, and he's uncertain if it's amorous impatience or anger that's moving this particular evening along so swiftly. No matter—he'll soon blot out her irritation with his ready hands and his wet mouth, then satisfy them both a second time with his eager, rigid cock.

Rush _always_ comes while his nose is buried in Belle's damp curls and his tongue is deep inside her. _Always._

Fuck, the _noises_ she makes, _just the noises alone— _

Belle settles back down upon his lap, and his fingers ease their way beneath her exquisite, plump little arse, squeezing roughly, his thumbnails digging into her white thighs.

His breath catches when she lifts up on her knees, obeying the pressure he applies to her scorching underside, and he's at last able to slide down between her splayed legs.

"Yes, love…" he encourages when Belle spreads her knees wider, lowering herself onto his waiting, wetted lips. "Fuck, come here…"

He keeps his hands wrapped around her flanks, gripping her securely, and flicks out his tongue to part her thicket of curls and her flushed outer lips. He licks slowly, beginning at Belle's wet entrance and spreading her open as he trails his tongue gently upwards.

_"Rush—!"_

Above him, Belle draws in a sharp breath and thrusts an arm out to steady herself against the metal wall. Her other hand reaches downwards, restlessly caressing his forehead and alternately tugging and smoothing his lank, messy hair.

"Rush, _please like that—!"_

Belle loves to feel his salt-and-pepper stubble between her thighs, so he lifts his chin and pulls her lower, his tongue tracing the sensitive, uneven edges of her fleshy inner folds—one side, then the other, one side, then the other—over and over until she begins to sway on her knees and rock against his open mouth.

"Please, yes…_ah, Rush!—please yes…!"_

Only once she's begging properly does he show some mercy and begin to slowly lap his way higher, listening for the tell-tale, high-pitched keens that will tell him when the time for teasing is over.

_"Rush…Rush—!"_

Belle's restless hand leaves off tugging his hair and fists the pillow by his head. Her eyes are screwed shut, and her cheeks and chest are a lovely deep pink.

He knows she'll soon be begging to lie down. Belle likes to wrap her calves around his shoulder blades when she's close and just give way to it, not have to worry about bearing her own slight weight.

_"Oh, Rush, please—"_

Her other hand is still splayed against the wall, and her fingers tremble and curl inwards while his tongue paints circles around the engorged nub hidden beneath her curls. She's very fucking close now. So is he, in actual fact. Time to get her resting on the pillows, possibly even slip one beneath her hips so they can get the exact the angle she favors.

_Fuck,_ he loves doing this for her. Time just _stops_ when he's using his mouth to tie Belle in knots.

Nearby, someone clears his throat.

"Well—as _rousing_ as this little scene is, I'm afraid my esteemed doppelgänger is needed elsewhere. Immediately."_  
_

Belle's trousers and gray t-shirt sail through the air, one after the other, landing beside her knees on the duvet.

It takes them both a long, dazed moment to understand who the owner of the clipped, chilly voice is. Once they do, Belle startles, sputters, and scrambles off of the bed, evidently electing to crouch beside it to hide her nakedness. For his part, Rush curses loudly and props himself up on his elbows, his hair wild and his brow deeply furrowed.

Standing just inside the closed doorway, his arms crossed and his lips curled back, is the Other-Rush. _Nicholas._ And if Nicholas is embarrassed to have walked in on his second-self _in flagrante,_ he certainly doesn't let on.

"I've just returned from Earth," Rush's double says, staring hard at the far wall, "and there have been some interesting developments. I need to discuss them with you, Dr. Rush. _Now."_

Nicholas keeps his eyes deliberately trained away from Belle's red, furious face. Only his full-blown pupils and uneven breathing betray that he is feeling anything beyond impatience and mild disgust.

"Fuck, whatever it is, it can wait, _surely—"_ Rush begins.

"It surely _cannot,"_ Nicholas counters, then abruptly turns on his boot heel to leave.

"It sure as hell _will_ wait," Belle informs them both, her voice hoarse and dangerously quiet. Rush glances over his right shoulder and is surprised to see she is now standing erect beside the bed, utterly bare save for her thin cotton bra.

Her ponytail is half undone, and the insides of her pale thighs glisten.

Belle has her stormy eyes firmly fixed on Nicholas, and she is crossing the room to stand before him.

_She's going to fucking eat him alive._

"Unless Destiny is _literally_ hurtling into a black hole _right now,_ Rush and I are going to stay and bloody finish what you just so rudely interrupted. You may either _fuck right off_ or you may stay and join in—I don't bloody care which—but you will _not _stand there staring at me like I'm yesterday's rubbage!"

Flushed and tousled, bare-arsed and quivering, Belle pokes a finger deep into Nicholas's breastbone, just daring him to speak.

_"Goddammit,_ French, cover yourself…" he says, trying and failing to keep his eyes level with hers. His gaze falls to the sheer, white cotton encasing her rapidly rising and falling chest.

_"No!_ There will be no more 'French!' I bloody hate that! You can go straight to hell, Nicholas! _You go straight to hell!"_

Breathing hard, Belle wheels around to look at Rush, who is still lying—quite prone and stunned—on the bed. "You _hated_ me," she says, her voice suddenly soft and broken, _"_Before this…you truly hated me…"

Something within his chest twists painfully, and Belle's face looks as though it's about to crumple. He reaches an arm out to her. Nicholas stands frozen near the door, looking jarred and disoriented.

What Belle does next shocks all three of them.

She spins around and roughly shoves Rush's double against the gray metal wall, takes his haggard, unshaven face in her hands, and kisses him fiercely.

Too astonished to react, both men suck in a stunned breath and go absolutely still. After a long moment, Rush's mouth falls open, and Nicholas's hands begin to scramble feebly at the smooth metal behind his hips.

_"Enough of this,"_ Belle hisses, finally dragging her swollen lips away from his, and neither man knows if she means enough of the kissing or enough of the enmity between the three of them.

She looks at Rush over her shoulder. "Do you know how to read jealousy on the human face?" she asks conversationally, sounding only the slightest bit winded. Her hands are still firmly pinning Nicholas to the wall. "That's something else I studied at Stanford. Look for glassy eyes, lips pulled back as though someone's eaten a lemon, crossed arms, and a tucked down chin…"

She turns back to face Nicholas. "Well, I'm _bloody tired of it._ I'm going to tell you how it all ends. You get the girl, get yourself laid, and cease acting like a terminal fuckwit."

With one easy yank, Belle exposes the pale flesh of Nicholas's belly, tugging his two shirts upwards. Her other hand travels over his soft, bare flesh and traces the light fur on his lower belly, all the while keeping him edged up against the wall.

Playing mute spectator to this little display, watching the jagged breaths and the bobbing Adam's apple of his identical double, Rush finds himself unsettled and unexpectedly _aroused._ Belle knows him intimately. Knows everything he wants sexually. She knows what he cannot resist, and there is a strange, perverse part of him that thrills to see her overcome his likeness, dominate him, teach his second-self a well-deserved lesson.

After all, Nicholas has been on _very_ bad behavior.

Belle glances back over her shoulder to take his temperature, to see what Rush is making of this little display. She delicately arches one eyebrow, as if to ask, "Yes?" and he nods quickly, his mouth dry: _"Oh yes."_

Rush's cock, wilted by the rude intrusion, is swiftly coming back to life. While Belle rakes her nails over his second-self's belly, leaving angry, red welts, he feels himself grow thick and eager all over again.

Belle's bold hands reach for Nicholas's leather belt, and Rush finds his own fingers quickly reaching for his belt buckle, ready to take himself in hand while she nips at the flesh on Nicholas's neck and shoulders and roughly pushes his jeans down over his lean hips.

Nicholas is breathing hard, looking utterly undone, not quite certain what is happening, just that he's got he's got fucking French—no, _Belle—_suddenly going down on her knees in front of him and that the lovesick, domesticated version of him is looking as though he's settling in for a proper wank session.

Well, _fuck._

Belle doesn't allow Nicholas to step out of his jeans, just leaves them bunched around his knees, roughly tugging his drawers down under his aching, drawn-up sack. Her surprisingly strong hands grip him by the arse, and she dips her head and expertly begins to work him over with her soft lips and searing tongue, drawing inadvertent groans from his parted lips.

_"Fuck, Belle…"_

Belle traces the smooth underside of his cock with the flat of her hot tongue. He's light-headed and all but fucking dripping for her. She does that slow lick over and over until he's grunting and rocking forward, muttering, "Fuck—_yes, Fr—…Belle!"_

Belle grips his small arse even tighter and draws him deeper into the warm, wet cavern of her mouth, suckling him, humming, making it so tight and so sweet and just so fucking fantastic.

It's been so fucking _long._

Glancing across the room, Nicholas sees his doppelgänger working his cock at the same tempo, white-knuckled, watching the action with a glassy stare.

When Nicholas feels himself getting close, so close that he's cussing, Belle abruptly removes her wet lips and gets up off her knees.

"You owe me an orgasm," she tells him archly, making her way over to Rush who's lying propped on the bed, his hand still gripping his cock and picking up speed.

"God, you'll be the death of me, love," she smiles, her eyes once more raking over him while she crawls up on the mattress, retrieving his cock from his tight right hand and lowering her lips to it.

She resets the pace, moving her tongue leisurely along the length of him. Thankfully, Belle's being especially gentle; he's feeling a bit chafed from the workout he just gave himself.

Across the room, Nicholas looks dazed, his curved cock still wet and firmly at attention, his pants still slouched around his knees.

"You owe her an orgasm," Rush barks, them hisses when Belle flicks her tongue over his sensitive, leaking tip. She smiles around his cock and strokes his belly.

Stepping out of his bunched jeans, looking utterly lost, Nicholas staggers across the room and takes Belle's raised, rocking hips in his hands. Holding his breath, he easily slides home, burying himself for the first time in years in tight, wet warmth—then sliding out, sliding in, sliding back out, listening to Belle moan and pant around the cock in her mouth.

"She likes to be fucking touched," Rush informs his second-self, appalled by the hands-off, workman-like fucking he's witnessing. Rush strokes Belle's full cheeks while she sucks him, staring hard at Nicholas.

Gasping, trying not to come before the other two, Nicholas reaches around to slip his hands beneath white cotton and cup Belle's glorious little breasts.

They're so fucking soft, and they fit his palms perfectly.

When she groans, he's emboldened to massage and then lightly pinch her puckered nipples, encouraged by the way Belle bucks her hips back against him.

He glares back at the other Rush.

_See?_ Apparently he does this just fine.

Nicholas trails one hand cautiously lower, reaching for the damp curls between Belle's legs. He strokes her there, listening to the way her breath catches and momentarily stops.

While he massages her soft, fleshy mound, matching the rhythm of her hips, Belle begins to keen and shiver, dragging her wet lips from Rush's cock at the very moment he thrashes and comes, painting his rapidly rising and falling belly with long ropes of white.

Well then. _That's_ the face he makes at the crucial moment.

Three more hard thrusts and stroking, nimble fingers put Belle over the edge, and she seizes up while Nicholas finishes himself inside her, cursing loudly. He stays buried within her, still shuddering, when Belle collapses to the bed next to Rush. She buries her face in his vest.

More relaxed than he's been in decades, Nicholas plays with the ends of Belle's tangled ponytail while Rush presses grateful kisses to her eyelids.

"How was that, love?" he asks. "How do you feel?"

"I feel…" She laughs softly. "That was bloody _unbelievable."_


End file.
